The Creator And The Muse

December 18, 2010 § Leave a comment

In the French film Molière, the hungry creator cannot balance his naturalness of comedy and his aching passion for a truth in tragedy in his theater. There is an incredible amount of potential to do great things, yet the ineptitude of where it would even go has yet to be, primarily, noticed, let alone washed away. Only through an unintended acquaintance with that connection to another who feels his passion without words does he break free of his incompetence and pride and speak from the heart he shares with her. The relationship between that of a creator and a muse is so inexplicably and poetically singular between each pair. Technically they have the same role, in that they both create an idea for the reassuring pleasure and ecstasy of the other, recognition of reaching out. Is this relationship, in of itself, indispensable and furthermore viciously and cerebrally distressing, or is it merely a self-inflicted wound of an insufferable life of creating? Either way, the outcome finds one transcended of comedy and tragedy if only for the fact that neither bare enough resemblance of the experience.

For those who haven’t seen it, the film follows this semblance of a plot. Upon a misshapen circumstance of being hired by a bourgeois to secure an affair outside his wife, Molière finds solace in the wife’s disdain for where she has ended up. She is far more intellectual and trusting of the arts than her husband, who is a pathetic excuse for a man. However, his one redemption came when remarking on the lady of his affair after she humiliates him in that he finally realized his passion was but a fluttering murmur. The relationship between Molière and the wife is the comedic tragedy for their entertaining mockery of the husband between each other ends up as their demise; she insists on he leaving to fulfill his goal of sharing his genius to the world of theater, for it would be selfish to deny, yet he insists she come, for she is the muse of his creations. Needless to say, she dies and he continues in her memory.

Am I like Molière? Have I rendered myself into an endless cycle of creating only for the sake of another so that I may die within myself a somber romantic unable of even wanting to create for the sake of my own desires? Is the desire only to live forever in the mind of the one who shattered the boundaries of my art, and if so will I endure it through the success or through the sensibility of knowing she has accepted my fate rather than I my own? These questions cannot be answered because I would only react in my own din, as if setting aflame a sunset would cause snowfall, but if I hadn’t at least expressed this aching then only my mind would be the audience and instill a welcomed self-oppression; so much in fact that the new word for sad-happy is now “Molière”, and yet closure will not welcome me. Perhaps this is why a still life is so enchanting; its solitaire glance exhibiting a single memory lost in itself from having no place or future. The only discrepancy is the creator is condemned to breathe.

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